


His Most Important Case

by ATokenATrifle



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Star Trek, Star Trek: Into Darkness - Fandom
Genre: ANOTHER Major Character Death, Angst, Bet you totally saw that coming!, Clones, Deep Freeze, Gen, Grab your tissues, Implied Johnlock, John gets better, Major character death - Freeform, Promise, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Sherlock Holmes Is Khan Noonien Singh, Sherlock is a bit not good... again, Sherlock is bat shit crazy, Still not sorry, Tears, The two of them against the universe, Torture, Treklock, Violence, secret government agencies, serums, sorrynotsorry, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATokenATrifle/pseuds/ATokenATrifle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After killing off John Watson in Chapter 1 (no spoilers, it's pretty damn quick, sorry) the emotional repurcussions for Sherlock will last long into the future. Is there any hope for our beloved detective and his blogger?</p><p>An epic tale spanning centuries, lifetimes and more than one fandom.</p><p>And clones! Did we mention clones?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

Sherlock was flawed, and he was floored. His world crumpled around him, noises drowned out to silence as he cradled the lifeless body in his arms. Dragged from the Thames only moments earlier, until that point there had still been hope.

Now there was nothing.

Face buried in sopping hair,now more grey than blonde, his eyes red raw, and cheeks stained tears, Sherlock prayed to a God he didn't believe in, to change the facts he knew to be true. Missing in the hours prior, a frantic search around London had resulted in this; three gunshot wounds, barely visible after the water of the Thames had washed everything away.

The man that kept him straight, the man that kept him right, John Watson, was dead.

There were voices, distant, hollow and muffled. He couldn't hear them properly, couldn't understand the words over the endless thudding of his beating heart; too loud and unwelcome next to the silent body cradled in his arms. Hands tugged at him and then departed to be replaced by others. His legs chilled on the gravel under him, the sensation in his hands departed shortly after, and yet his grip on his partner, his colleague, his best friend never eased. Somehow, he'd keep John safe, it was what they did after all....kept each other safe...wasn't it?

Lestrade's calm voice at his ear, urging him away, 'nothing to be done', went unheeded. Urgent messages to Molly, to Mrs Hudson, their presence barely felt, their gentle fingers on his head, on his shoulders. Nothing reached him. The soft, broken keening, uncaring of who saw or who heard, bringing tears to the eyes of all standing around the man curled around the pitiful remains. Dual victims, two lives lost in a single day.

Eventually it’s Mycroft that manages to pry Sherlock away but only just. Not prone to sentiment, gentle words whispered in Sherlock’s ear until the holder becomes the held; one body replacing another in his arms. The elder brother desperately trying to provide a lifeline to the crumbling soul clinging to him on the rough gravel of the Thames shore. The morgue workers would take care of John, Molly would look after him, he assures Sherlock. Remembering John’s words “Donated to science”, Sherlock rushes toward the mortuary vehicle again but is held back, his long fingers brushing the leather of John’s shoes as he’s dragged away.

The car doors close and the body bag, with its precious contents, departs into the London night bearing the remnants of Sherlock’s life like shattered glass on a cold Thames waterfront.

 

 


	2. The Case

6 months later – Baker St.

 

Sherlock stood at the window, watching, observing the street scene below him. Nothing had changed; stupid people scurrying about in the stupid importance of their stupid little everyday lives. He hadn’t taken a case in months; he couldn’t, exhaustion robbed him of the ability to concentrate on even the simplest task. Even Sherlock Holmes needed sleep occasionally, however since John’s death, it had been few and far between; his nights wracked with nightmares.

In the past, Sherlock had been there to awaken John from his nightmares, the leftover burden of a brain ravaged by a warzone. Now, however, there was no one to wake him from his. This was his life now, day in, and day out. Mrs. Hudson had suggested he take on a new roommate, but it made no sense to him; Sherlock didn’t need another unnecessary person around him. All he wanted, all he needed, was the most dependable, competent and reliable human being, best friend in the world. And he was gone.

Sherlock had lost two of his closest friends within months of each other. First, Mary had died during childbirth, the loss of both her and the baby tearing a hole in John’s heart and consequently Sherlock’s. Then John had been killed, and taken what little remained of the detective’s soul with him.       

The funeral had been small; Harry had been a glaring absentee, tucked away in rehab, but Mike Stamford, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, Anderson and Lestrade had all been there. Well, he assumed they were there; still numb from the pain, the thoughts and memories from that day still seem worn out and patchy like an old VHS tape.

Laying ignored but close to hand was the only thing he knew would give him respite; the needle. While he struggled with the temptation to lose himself within its embrace, he ignored it in favour of a more visceral need, one that consumed his every waking moment.

Revenge; cold blooded, calculated, pure revenge.

If he’d been willing to throw someone out the window for Mrs. Hudson, he thought wryly, what hope did those that killed John Watson have?

Normally an invaluable asset, his Homeless Network had been next to useless; completely frustrating. There had been no leads, no information, no whispers, nothing to help him solve this case, his most important case. Legs crossed, uncrossed, crossed again, finger rapping at the edge of his armchair, he looked across at Mycroft sitting in John’s chair.

The last time John had left, and of his own choosing, Sherlock had removed the chair unable to stomach the sight of it. This time, however, it served a precursory function and was therefore very much needed; focus. The chair, and its former contents, kept him focused on revenge.

“Face it, Sherlock, this may just have been one big… accident?” Mycroft placed a tea cup back on the side table and looked across at his brother.

Unable to formulate a socially acceptable answer for his brother, Sherlock was relieved to see Mrs. Hudson appear at the head of the stairs.

“Sherlock, dear,” she smiled, “There’s someone here for you, shall I send them up?”

Sherlock smiled fondly at her as the shuffle of feet made their way up the empty stairway leaving a bedraggled member of his Homeless Network standing in the doorway. Sherlock stood immediately knowing this could be the news he was waiting for.

“Sherlock,” the young girl stood before him, smelling of cigarettes and the Thames.

“Out with it already,”

“I know who it is,” she stammered, “I know who killed John Watson,”


	3. Vengeance in the Night

Having all but tossed Mycroft physically through the front door, Sherlock paced the floor of the Baker St lounge, his informant sitting on the couch.

“Are you sure? Are you absolutely positive? I mean we need to be one hundred percent certain,”

“Yes,” she nodded, “I overheard them talking the other night. Terrible tragedy, bungled robbery,”

“But they know John!” he shouted, “How did they not know John?”

He couldn't quite believe what he was hearing; one of his own. A member of the Homeless Network had been responsible for robbing Sherlock of his dearest friend and closest ally. They all knew who John Watson is… who he.... was, so why? More accurately, he couldn't say they _all_ knew, but the person sitting on his couch certainly did as did many others. Yet, When all other possibilities have been excluded, whatever remains, however impossible, must be the truth.....however unpalatable.

“What else do you know about it?” Sherlock demanded; he was seething, burning, and knew his response already.

Sherlock had no problem killing people to protect those he loved. Charles Augustus Magnussen had been the first in a string of people who had threatened his friends, his family, his way of life, and Sherlock had killed him without a second thought. He found it easy, actually, very easy, far too easy, and would not hesitate to do it again on a number of occasions. This time would be no different; this would be for John, because of John, avenging his demise.

He rifled through the top drawer in the bedroom, retrieving John’s gun; tucked safely away and waiting for this day, confident it would come.

In exchange for the information, Sherlock had offered the girl the use of his shower and couch, and Mrs. Hudson organised a meal as he pulled on his Belstaff, collar turned up against the weather, and melted into the night.

Wet footsteps echoed along the underside of the bridge he’d been directed to and Sherlock stopped to listen. Whispered voices congregated around fire constructed in a discarded drum, sparse warmth for those on the streets. Three bodies stood around the fire, shoulders hunched up, hands being warmed by the fire that provided the only light under the bridge. One remained seated, back against the cold brick wall.

Silent and furtive, he eased toward the dimly lit area, stood, and observed. Who fit the description? He had a name and characteristics, which he measured against the four men near him. Deducing that it was the man slumped against the wall, he cleared his throat, announcing his presence.

The three at the fire scurried off into the night, knocking it over in their hasty exit. The fourth man still sat against the wall, watching as Sherlock moved closer to him.

“Ash Bodaway?” Sherlock questioned as he reached slowly and gently for his back pocket.

The man stood as Sherlock approached; he did not speak but his mouth curled into a smirk. That was all the answer Sherlock needed. His blood boiled hotter than the sun, his sight focused on nothing other than the man in front of him. Forgoing the convenience of the firearm, he decided this needed to hurt. Long, slow, and painful.

A short, sharp snap forward and Sherlock had the man by the shirt lapels, thrusting him back into the brick wall repeatedly, his head hitting with a dull thud each time. His hair was long, blonde and straggly, and whipped against his face. After the third or fourth thud he started laughing, low and harsh.

“So angry, so very angry,” he clicked his tongue as he shook his head against the bricks.

“What?” Sherlock stopped in his tracks; surely not

“I told you;Did you listen to me? Noooo, Sherlock Holmes doesn't listen to anyone but himself,” the laughter went from subtle chuckling to something deep and viscous.

He’d been completely blindsided; absolutely and completely. Sherlock tugged at the blonde hair and it came off in one lump; a wig disguising shortly cropped dark hair. Ash Bodaway, this man, this being, this monster standing in front of him reached up to his own face and peeled off an elaborate mask.

Hands shaking, anger turning to blind rage, vision impaired by wet salty tears, Sherlock stepped away and aimed his gun.

“I told you, didn’t I Sherlock? I’d burn the heart right out of you,” the man shook his head, grinning, “I did tell you,” his voice sung.


	4. The Search

  **5 Days Prior**

Moriarty.

Moriarty had killed John Watson.

Sherlock didn't   care anymore; there was nothing left worth caring about. Everything had been taken from him, so what was the point anymore? Those thoughts buffeted him as  he pummeled Moriarty over, and over, and over again; his fists, the butt of John Watson’s gun, he kicked him, threw him across the room while still strapped into a chair, but emotionally, nothing seemed to move Moriarty.

The only thing he kept repeating was “Burn the heart out of you”, that was all the information Sherlock could gather. That appeared to be his whole and sole motive. Sherlock had wanted to kill him on the spot, right there under the bridge and let the tide take the body away and let the local wildlife do with it as they may. Yet, he also wanted him to suffer, which lead them to the abandoned warehouse along the Thames. This where John’s life was snuffed, this is where the last of Moriarty’s sick, polluted light would be extinguished.

Sherlock couldn’t ascertain how many days they’d been inside the warehouse when he eventually walked out, his pocket three bullets lighter, knuckles bruised and swollen. Having made Moriarty suffer an inordinate amount of pain, eyes a bloodshot red and trembling with tears, Sherlock had finished him off with three bullet holes in the same places John had been littered with them. Two designed to hurt, one designed to kill, he hoped John hadn't been made to wait for that last one as long as he'd made Moriarty.

**Present Day**

Cold and musty, water dripping from rafters, pigeon excrement littering the corners and spaces on the floor,it seemed fitting that a disused warehouse would be where they found him; Lestrade, Anderson and Donovan stood around the very earthly remains of Moriarty. How long had he been here? How long had he been dead for? Who put him here?

There were signs that whoever had put an end to James Moriarty had done so over the course of several days. Bruises new and old, broken teeth, bones, cuts and scratches and yet still with that ridiculous looking smile on his face. Moriarty had done something he was proud about, right until the very end. Cause of death; three similarly placed bullet holes in the chest. They’d been unable to find Sherlock in the few days prior to the discovery, and he was still missing. Where was he? Who was he with? Did he do this? His homeless network had, in the last few days, broken down from within; numerous missing people and bodies turning up in dark corners, it seemed like London was in the middle of a new crime wave, possibly even a new serial killer. Lestrade's instincts screamed that there was a connection. “Anderson, find Sherlock. I don’t care how you do it, just find him,” Lestrade added with regret, “If he isn't responsible for this, I’ll be very surprised,”


	5. The Solution

**_Present Day_ **

There was no sign of him. No trace. No phone answered, no text messages returned. Mrs. Hudson hasn’t seen him for the better part of a week and turning Baker Street on its head revealed nothing of note. In short, Sherlock was missing.

Lestrade was in awe of the extent of the pressure Mycroft was capable of exerting when there was something he deemed 'critical' to be achieved. Daily briefings, specialist teams, technology installed at New Scotland Yard that was far beyond any possibility of funding permitting.

But in the end, the solution was the one they should have expected to begin with. Crouched in a filthy, rat infested crack den, Sherlock was found; huddled, incomprehensible and with his hand wrapped around his drug kit. Not 'for a case' this time....this time, Sherlock had sought oblivion, and very nearly found it.

Unresponsive to treatment, Sherlock was in a coma. When found, he had been barely alive and the doctors were unsure of what they could do for him; his slight frame finally beaten by a habit he thought able to control. Then again, he hadn’t been able to control much lately.

“We found his fingerprints on Moriarty,” Lestrade spoke quietly in the poorly lit hospital room.

“I imagined you would, wrapped around his throat at the very least.” Mycroft was not at all surprised that his younger brother had been responsible for this, “So, what happens now Greg?” Mycroft was already confident of the answer, but needed it confirmed.

“Well, he’s still committed murder, hasn’t he? So prison likely,” Lestrade offered with a shrug.

“We both know that can’t happen.”

“He could plead insanity?”

“And end up in a lunatic asylum? I should think not.” Mycroft swung a disbelieving look at Lestrade.

They seemed the only options available; that is, if he ever woke up.

For all of his intellect and strength, Mycroft knew Sherlock was far too damaged mentally to be allowed back into society. He was now considered a dangerous person....WAS a dangerous person. He had again taken life without consideration as to the consequences, consequences now being felt across London as even more of his Homeless Network disappeared off the radar; the network now all but shut down, finished, destroyed.  As Mycroft had pointed out once before, after the death of Magnussen, there would be daily riots were Sherlock placed into a prison, there was no reason to believe an asylum would fare any better.

However, a week on and it seemed neither of these question of Sherlock's penalty wouldnever need answering. He was not responding to treatment, so desperate times called for desperate measures. Sentiment may very well be a defect found on the losing side, but  the alternative was that Mycroft was losing his brother by daily inches. Say what you will about Sherlock, he was still Mycroft’s younger brother, still family.

With death inevitable, Mycroft placed one final phone call, one last request; one last, desperate favor.

“I wonder if you should be so kind as to let me know your progress on the serum?” he asked down the line.

“Human trials are ready to begin, sir,” the voice was steady and confident.

“Hmm, very well,” he stopped, “And results have been?”

“Excellent, sir. We’ve seen improved strength, intellect and life span from all subjects tested,”

“I believe I need to call in a favour from you,” he spoke slowly.

“And what is that, sir?”

“I have a subject for you, if you would be so obliging as to help me. I understand this would be highly irregular, but I do think you’ll find him a suitable candidate,”

“Who’s that sir?”

“My brother, Sherlock Holmes,”


	6. The Administration

"Sorry, I don't understand, Mycroft. He's too dangerous to be let loose, to be incarcerated or to be committed, so you're going to make him even stronger...and even smarter. How does that work? What does that solve?" Lestrade was increasingly unconvinced of Mycroft’s plan.

"It allows us to do with Sherlock what we do with all of the most dangerous, talented people in our society....we enlist them for service."

After it was confirmed that Sherlock did indeed fit the bill for the serum trial,  preparations were made, appropriate people and parents notified. Outstanding debts were paid and 221B Baker Street was packed up; the contents moved into a storage facility.

Sherlock Holmes would not be returning to Baker Street again.

With machines keeping him alive for the most part, his body was transported to a bunker deep below the surface of London and into a waiting medical facility. Smart beyond comparison and, while not the strongest man on earth, Sherlock Holmes had proven time and again that he could certainly hold his own when needed. The serum, if it saved him, would amplify this.

“With a brain like his, imagine what he could achieve” Mycroft thanked his benefactor again, grateful his request had been granted; he was in no way ready to concede a funeral for his younger brother.

“We’ll be in touch, sir,” the benefactor shook his hand, “Though best if you don’t visit, given the program's goals.”

“Of course,” he nodded, “Hourly updates at first until we make a decision as to whether to proceed.”

“Absolutely,” a small salute the administrator disappeared down a cold, bright corridor, pushing Sherlock Holmes on a trolley.

He was given a private room; a bed, a chair, a desk and a bathroom, all wrapped up within a tiny space. Should this work, Sherlock Holmes would potentially see out the next twenty years of his life within these walls. Learning and helping to improve the knowledge base of society. Weapons, communication and space programs would benefit from a brain that would be further expanded with additional knowledge and understanding.

A wardrobe stood in the corner of the room; simple black uniforms filled the hangars, and tall boots filled the floor. A mirror would evidence his physical transformation over the coming months under medical supervision.

For the next few days, updates were hourly either by text, phone or email and. Should no improvement be detected by the following Monday, the serum would be administered.

For the second time in his life, a false funeral service had been held for Sherlock Holmes. This time, however, he was branded a hero for his part in the taking down of James Moriarty; much different to his previous public humiliations. Deaths within the Homeless Network ceased the minute it was known that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

 To the world, he was gone and for those privy to the greater plan, he would not be seen again in his present form.

More tests, more scans, and the following Monday rolled around quickly. One final dispensation for Mycroft and he was present when the serum was administered to his brother. Should anything go awry, a familiar face may be needed to quell the storm.

Monday evening and the machines keeping Sherlock Holmes alive were switched off; tubes and IV drips removed. His heartbeat slowed to a dull, aching thud; slower and slower still, doctors looked to Mycroft for confirmation. A curt nod signaled his approval and a needle pricked the skin inside Sherlock’s elbow. Mycroft stood back hoping for the best, but expecting the worst.

“Sleep well, brother mine,”


	7. The Awakening

They waited.

A heartbeat quickened, fingers twitched and eyelashes fluttered. Satisfied with this, Mycroft had left the room, he couldn’t be around when it happened.

Bright blue eyes snapped open.

A rigid body sat up in bed, muscles tense, arms bents and hands curled into fists and an almighty gasp of air inwards. Doctors, nurses, everyone in attendance stood back and watched in trepidation.

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

Sherlock Holmes was awake.

Sherlock Holmes was angry.

His eyes darted around the room, noone familiar, noone known. Immediately his brain went to work; doctors, nurses, sealed room, no windows, underground? Yes, probably underground, no sunlight. Identification tags showed no hospital name, a sparse room, very empty, very well equipped, high tech in fact; Government facility. The speed of his deductions surprised and confused even him.

“What on earth is going on? Why am I in a Government bunker? I assume this is Mycroft's doing?” he spat, jumping out of his bed, sheet wrapped around him, “Where is he? Where’s Mycroft? ”

“Mr. Holmes, if you’ll calm down,”

“Calm down?! Calm down?!” he yelled, “Is this his idea of a joke? Where is he, and who the HELL has my clothes?”

"Mr Holmes, you've been in an accident. You've been very unwell and certain...measures had to be taken to save your life. If you'll take a seat, clothes will be brought to you and every question will be answered. Please." The doctor gestured at a chair.

Sherlock gave a terse nod and sat, glaring imperiously at the staff.

In the following hours, Sherlock was informed of the date, the severity of his injuries and the details of the process he had undergone to save his life. After a very tense standoff, he resentfully dressed in the provided uniform and listened, asking incisive questions wherever he detected a gap in logic or transparency.

Finally, cold logic persuaded Sherlock of the inevitable; this was to be the price he paid for his revenge. This was to be his jail. Standing from the chair he silently stretched out a hand to shake that of his jailer.

Awoken early the next morning, Sherlock was transported to a new room; secret doors and passageways illuminating the path to his new life. A new identity, haircut and job description were awaiting him at the end of a corridor. No further deductions could be made at this point in time; the rooms and corridors he’d been exposed to so far had mirrored the room he had just spent the night in.

His former life was no more. Condition of his survival was no contact with anyone from his past. Sherlock had a new job to do now, and one that would help ensure the survival of the human race. Begrudgingly, he agreed to these conditions. Sherlock’s ID tags and paperwork all bore his new name and identity and were to be kept on him at all times.

A daily schedule was provided, a veritable prison indeed, which he perused and quickly committed to memory. Everything was set out in structured timeslots, something he would have to get used to as he would not be leaving this compound any time soon, such were the conditions.

Final order of the day was a tour of the facility. How did he not know this had existed? Sherlock admonished himself as he looked at what surrounded him. There were all manner of space aged technological devices in rooms more reminiscent of aircraft hangers. He knew he was still on earth; he had to be on earth still, because he could see skylight through the small windows at the top of the walls.

“What are your thoughts, sir?”

“Impressive,” he mused.

“Ready to begin, then?”

“Of course,”

“Well,” his tour guide outstretched a hand for him to shake, “Welcome to Starfleet Section 31, Mr. Harrison,”

 

 


	8. The Transition

The augmentation virus worked.

His days, and his life, were kept to a routine. Wake up, meals, training, academia, meetings, briefings, and sleeping were all strictly scheduled. Also a part of his new life was continual medical tests, the results of which left doctors in awe. His body not only had repaired itself with the augmentation virus, it was excelling, and exceeding expectations. He was earmarked as a candidate to be watched carefully.

Gradually, Sherlock Holmes was drifting further and further away from himself and becoming more accustomed to life as John Harrison. The transition was not an easy one; Sherlock Holmes was not accustomed to feeding from his emotions, they never benefitted him before, so why would they possibly be of use now. Logic and reason is what he needed and what he relied upon in his everyday life.

Training within Section 31, however, was designed to teach him to feed from these emotions. A slow and agonising process at first, he soon came to realise that he had enough rage to last a lifetime. Though he had ended Moriarty, the rage had not been sated and this was channeled into his training deep in the belly of London.

Exhaustive training consumed the next twelve months; physical as well as academic. Already strong in mind and body, training served to further heighten his abilities as he ran faster and learned quicker than his peers. Even he is surprised by the vast amount of information he is able to absorb, and with little effort. He'd always been quick to absorb information quickly, but not like this, this was effortless, akin to osmosis. Newly acquired information was used to design weapons and systems designed to destroy, hurt and kill. He fed the rage's insatiable appetite.

His training granted one other boon; the old life he knew was gone, never to see his family again, they are neither useful nor helpful to his cause and so he forgets. Mycroft, his parents, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Baker Street, and Molly, they all faded into the distant recesses of his mind, leaking out slowly like a fish tank with a crack, and eventually the stray memories stop bothering him all together. 

The only thing that doesn’t fade, and he refuses to allow it to, is John Watson. The man that kept him right, the man that kept him straight all those years now had a new purpose. But there’s a change; John, in absentia, keeps him angry, and keeps the bitter embers of his rage burning bright.

All he wants, all he needs, and all that keeps his rage from spilling out and consuming everything is his ability to dominate and to win.

The transition was complete.

Sherlock Holmes was gone.

Only John Harrison remained.


	9. Deep Freeze

**Present Day - Section 31**

Weapons and system design had become his specialty; John Harrison had successfully implemented a design for suspended animation, cryogenic freezing. Often thought one of the last realms of the medical world, alongside cloning, he had worked for and achieved this milestone; dozens of test subjects frozen and thawed with no ill effect.

Harrison’s own health had been noted by medical staff. His blood contained regenerative platelets; veritably superhuman, which could further help the human race along in the field of medical advancement.

His mental health, however, was not to be looked at lightly. His behaviour was odd, and communications and conversations had been intercepted indicating his plans to lead a rebellion in Section 31. Still, his rage fed him. John Watson, the only memory of a time long passed, kept that fire burning inside of him. He had risen quickly within the ranks to become Commander John Harrison and this, along with his anger, did not go unnoticed by his superiors.

In short, he was too dangerous; again. His rage, combined with his physical strength and intellect had earmarked him as problematic. There had been incidents where people had been severely injured, and at his hands. If left to his own devices, he had the potential to become a genocidal tyrant; not the headlines Starfleet or Section 31 needed.

It was time, they decided, for him to be stopped. Lulled into a laboratory of one final test of suspended animation, the process was started and he was left there. John Harrison was no longer a threat; while he was on ice.

**2358 AD: Section 31 - Cloning Unit**

The ebb and flow of government funding resulted in other areas progressing and resources being reassigned. One unit fighting and winning its case for expansion was the long dormant cloning division. Founded in the early 21st century, technology was yet to advance far enough to make true human cloning viable; however the careful obtaining and storage of samples had ensured a ready supply of material if and when the time came for the unit to be resurrected. It seemed the time had finally come.

Deep within the cavernous basements of St Bart's hospital, beyond a key-coded door lay row upon row of refrigerated storage cases, their green monitor lights winking in the blackness of the room. Within the space, in a tray simply marked with a 12 digit reference number, the precious remains of Doctor John Hamish Watson, Late of Baker Street and the Northumberland Fusiliers waited.

The hiss of a vacuum seal being released pierced the silence of the room and the inside of the storage case was bathed in a bright fluorescent white light. Careful hands, gloved against bacteria lifted the tray and placed it onto the trolley.


	10. Where's Sherlock?

The dull thudding was not dissimilar to a bad hangover, was John's first thought. Oddly, try as he might, he was unable to open his eyes. There was only the steady thud, thud, thud that he finally recognised as his own heartbeat, strangely loud in his ears.

More worrying, he was seemingly unable to move. He was making all the correct memory moves to sit up and yet there was little response. No feeling of sheets moving on his torso, and in fact, there was no feeling of sheets touching him at all. He tried to shout but the same condition that had robbed him of his sight, had seemingly robbed him of speech. John considered the most likely medical conditions that fit the symptoms and alarmingly could only come up with locked-in syndrome. Panic washed through him, his instinct begging him to gasp for breath but again cursing his unresponsive body.

John cried, without tears and without sound......for three weeks.

Then, a change. Although he was still unable to open his eyes, he was aware of shifting light beyond his eyelids. Additionally, he began to sense that he may in fact be suspended in fluid rather than horizontal on a bed. Although these sensations made no sense, they were, at least, new. He grasped at them, held them tight....and waited.

Movement...He could move, the sensation of his arms moving through viscous liquid was rapturous. He could feel the fine hairs on his arms and legs shifting in response to whatever the liquid was. He rubbed his fingertips together and revelled in the feel of ridged fingerprints grating against each other. He tentatively tried to open his mouth and found himself reactively flailing at the feel of liquid flowing into his mouth and lungs. After several minutes of panic logic overcame the unconscious reflex to cough up the liquid and he hesitantly began to breath the fluid, lungful after uncomfortable lungfull. Confusion returned, exhaustion claimed him and John slept.

Hands were lifting him, his body impossible lax and heavy as it rose from the tank, still in his world of darkness. Arms and legs that had been increasingly active were now non-functional on the bed. Gentle cloths, wiping his skin, cleaning him, clearing his mouth and _oh, yes_ AIR. His body remembered how to breathe and it gathered huge gulping lungfuls. The sound of his heartbeat, so pervasive for so long, dropped to a background rattle as the voices of medical staff began to move to the fore. The sense that if he concentrated hard enough, perhaps the words would make sense tickled his thoughts.

"......clean......warm......good." he grasped the words like a lost toy.

"Safe........sleep......tomorrow..." The words were a comfort as he was tucked into clean sheets and drifted back to sleep.

"Doctor Watson. Can you hear me?" John startled awake, the darkness remained. He began to wonder if he'd ever be able to see again. He nodded.

"Doctor Watson, you've been asleep a long time..." a pause, "a VERY long time, but you're safe, and you're doing really well. I know you must be wondering why you can't see. Let me do something about that. Just stay calm and laying down for us."

There was the prick of a needle and blinding light burst behind his eyelids together with a significant amount of pain. John cried out and was, for once, delighted to hear his own verbalisation of his discomfort.

"Shhhh, shhhh. It will pass, just give it a moment." He felt a hand over his eyes, "Now, can you try to open your eyes? Slowly...very slowly, you'll find it bright."

John separated sticky eyelids, wincing at the dim light filtering through pink fingers shielding his eyes.

A hand lifted his own, replacing the hand over his eyes with his own, "There you go, now you can control the pace. A little at a time, don't rush it Doctor."

Over the next fifteen minutes, John recaptured the ability to see. Bright, white and clinical, the room he was in seemed more like a laboratory than a hospital and the nurse at his side, dressed in a simple jumpsuit of pale grey did nothing to dispel his impression.

John cleared his throat, opened his mouth and with a voice scratchy from disuse, asked the question that had been dogging him for weeks and spoke of his  most immediate need.

"Sherlock. Where's Sherlock?"


	11. The Thaw

John Harrison was stiff, and he was sore. The reanimation process was almost complete as he lay in his cryonics tube, his awareness returning to him at a rate of knots. His first thoughts reminded him of his rage and angry fingers wrestled with the edge of his cryonics tube, cold fingers fumbling with it until such time as he found the button to open it.

With a click and a hiss, the lid slid down to the bottom end of the tube, allowing Harrison to sit upright and take in his surroundings. He wondered how long he’d been suspended for; it felt like a matter of days, akin to waking up from a long nap.

Gingerly, he bent his knees up and carefully climbed out of the tube, both feet landing firmly on the floor. A few moments was all that was needed before he found function in them again, motor skills not quite forgotten in the deep freeze.

The final moments before his suspension came flooding back into his memory bank; cornered, unwanted, not fitting in, he had been duped into getting into the tube in the first place and rage went from a simmer to a hot boil, fists clenched and knuckles white.

His room around him provided no clue as to where he was, nor the date.  A small panel on the front of his tube caught his attention, red numbers illuminating the date; 2359. If this was correct, he Harrison had been in suspended animation for three hundred and forty five years. _Three hundred and forty five years_.

A rogue fist smashed through the lid of his cryonics tube, splintering plastic and glass around his fist and fingers, small cuts starting to heal themselves in no time.

There was a door visible in the corner of the room, square and set in different tones of beige, but no door handle, no exit mechanism. Harrison banged loudly on the door repeatedly, a lack of response fanning the flames of rage further. He kept beating until such time as his fists were crumples and knuckles bruised and bloodied from the effort, a slight indentation and his own blood smears in the door the only reminder that he had been there.

Pacing the room angrily, his brain flooded with thoughts, the cryonics tube was kicked from the trolley it laid on with the trolley tossed across the room shortly after. A lone chair in the corner was picked up and smashed against the wall, a guttural yawp coming from his mouth as the chair broke into shards against the wall.

No windows, no doors, no clue as to what was happening to him. It felt like an eternity before he heard from anyone, a voice echoing into the room.

“Commander Harrison,”

His reflexes reptilian as his head snapped around to the direction of the voice permeating each corner of the room.

“This is Admiral Marcus of Starfleet, the year is 2359 and we have awoken you to take on a mission. Are you okay? Do you need medical attention? We are sending someone to your room as we speak,”

He stood as stiff as a post, “Watson. Where is John Watson?”


	12. Retraining

**_2359 – John Harrison_ **

Cold, hard revenge; he needed it more than ever now. Harrison had calmed enough that Admiral Marcus could enter the room without fear of being killed and, now, the two of them sat opposite each other in Marcus’s office discussing future plans for Harrison.

“I was frozen, again. Why was I frozen again?” Harrison’s voice was controlled, but demanding.

“Well, son, you were deemed to be... shall we say... a danger to operations,”

“I was no such thing. They got what they wanted; they’d finished with me and disposed of me. I did everything for them; they were my family,”

“They were, but I have something better for you now. Somewhere you’ll be appreciated and put to good use,” Marcus watched for a response of sorts from the cold exterior sitting opposite him.

Harrison looked at around the room, a natural habit; watching, taking everything in, calculating everything all at once. Despite his deep freeze, he was still razor sharp in body and mind. Advances in cryonics and the reanimation mean there was little to no effect on him, except perhaps the festering rage that was building inside of him.

“What makes you so certain I want to work for you?” Harrison’s hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white, brow furrowed.

“Because you feed on revenge,”

The following three months saw Harrison back to what he was doing best; designing weapons and Starfleet ships whilst returning his body to its physical peak. Daily meetings with Admiral Marcus ensured he was kept constantly up to date on the progress of his operations team. Harrison was in charge of readying a team of 72 fellow augments for the mission, preparing them mentally and physically for the mission ahead.

Family; his crew were his family now and Harrison made sure he did everything in his and their power to ensure their success. This commitment was noted by Admiral Marcus and, for once, Harrison had found a place where he belonged. Buried deep underneath London, and underneath Starfleet Archives, he was achieving something.

Things turned on their head three months after his awakening. A meeting with Admiral Marcus was scheduled and Harrison, keen to find out the next part of the project, was on time and waiting when Marcus waltzed into the room. Having worked hard on his mission, it was almost time to get it underway.

“This is not what we originally planned,” Harrison was blunt and to the point.

“That may be so, Commander, but I assure you it will continue to be the direction we’re heading,”

“What makes you so sure of that?” his eyes narrowed in on Marcus.

“Well, because you’d do anything for your family, would you not? I’d hate to see what happens if you fail to cooperate with Starfleet being the dangerous operative that you are,”

Admiral Marcus had just made his first mistake; threatened Harrison’s family.

**_2359 – John Watson_ **

The next three months were hard and yet strangely familiar to John Watson. He’d been cloned to supplement the supply of medical staff Starfleet needed for its ever increasing interstellar expansion.

As technology and society on Earth had progressed, accompanied by advances in health care and genetic engineering, there had been a dramatic fall in the number of doctors and health care professionals. The challenge that had attracted intelligent, empathetic individuals to the medical path had been all but obliterated with one-touch diagnostic tools and a simple genetic manipulation to fix virtually all physical and mental issues.

That was before warp-drive. Suddenly, mankind was again on the fringes of civilisation, exposed to real and tangible danger and although the solutions to illnesses and injury may be available, they were no longer necessarily close at hand. Starships needed strong, brave and capable healers, preferably with experience in potentially dangerous situations.

People like Doctor John Watson.

And so, John found himself in the unusual situation of being both teacher and student. There was an almost insurmountable amount of new technology to learn, new terminology and an entirely new way of life. At the same time, students and teachers around him treated him with deference and a guarded awe at the way he adapted, and improvised. It was a skill long since lost to all but the most brilliant of strategists and here he was, effortlessly innovating using the sparsest of materials in the harshest of conditions in simulation after simulation.

Gradually, John became comfortable with the new way of working and discussions turned to deployment. It had become clear that John’s medical ability was matched by an almost preternatural ability to locate, possibly even seek out, danger. If there was a fight at the Academy, John would be there. Accident on the grounds, John would be first on scene. A particularly interesting spill in the toxins lab, John could be relied upon to be involved in the clean-up. Anything that added excitement to the routine of his day was a magnet to John’s thirst for excitement. It made his assignment a simple decision. Doctor John Watson, Starfleet Medical, would be assigned to the Enterprise.

@@@

“You should see him Jim, I’ve never seen anyone like it before.”

“He came highly recommended Bones. You know he’s over 300 years old?”

“Well he sure doesn’t act it, he’s working longer shifts that every other cadet and running rings around them all. And as an added bonus, he’s a nice guy, Jim. I’d have a dozen like him if I could.”

“Maybe we can ask Starfleet to clone some more.” James Kirk and Leonard ‘Bones’ McCoy shared a laugh over breakfast as they discussed their new crew.

The mood became more serious, “So, no second thoughts about the mission, Jim? You know this will probably start a war.”

“He has to be stopped Bones, he has to be held accountable for the deaths he caused. I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll bring him back if I can, but Harrison won’t get away.”

 

 


	13. Man in Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's taken so long for an update!

**_ Harrison _ **

In response to the threat against his family, Harrison set a number of plans in motion. The first was to ensure the safety of the team he’d been training with. His crew. His family. He had worked hard, he had been betrayed, over and over again, and this was the final straw. The rage he thought was dissipating had returned like a solar flare. 

Under the cover of night, he worked, toiling away at his craft. Dimly lit rooms and the blue haze of technology saw him with a solution he was finally happy with. One by one, his team was lured into his office, men and women, and under the pretence of a mission, placed into a cryogenic sleep; their bodies placed within long range torpedo shells. Harrison was readying to leave Section 31 and he was taking his crew with him. 

Best laid plans do not always come to fruition, and Harrison was forced to flee on his own leaving his family behind. The game had changed and, as a result, so must his plans. Desperation is a fierce conductor that meant he Harrison had no trouble finding someone to help him execute the second piece of his plan; the destruction of Section 31. 

Agent Thomas Harewood needed a miracle. His daughter was ill, she was dying, and only one thing could and would save her; a blood transfusion from Harrison himself. Regenerative platelets within Harrison’s blood meant she would be cured of all ills but this would come at a price. A vial of blood was exchanged for the promise of the destruction of Section 31, to be performed using a bomb designed by Harrison himself and activated in water. 

In the reign of chaos that followed on from the explosion, Harrison was able to secure the formula for transwarp beaming which allowed him to fit out a combat efficient jumpship to perform the task. While Harrison was busy doing this, and emergency meeting of Starfleet was called; their number one enemy had been identified as Commander John Harrison, Section 31 operative who had now gone rogue, according to Admiral Marcus. 

Emergency meeting in play, Harrison used this jumpship to destroy the room and, hopefully, its contents. He was successful in murdering Captain Pike and Captain Abbott before Kirk effectively disabled Harrison’s craft, sending it hurtling to the ground below. 

Before it hit the ground, however, Harrison had beamed himself away to the one place he was sure Starfleet could not follow him, the Klingon homeland of Qo’nos. 

_** Watson ** _

John remembered what it was like to go to war. He shouldn't; after all, this body had never been in battle, had never been at Baker Street, had never been shot. Yet he remembered all of it. The pain, the love, the death as if it were imprinted on his DNA and perhaps it was.

The only missing legacy of his life before was the scar on his shoulder (and he assumed the bullet wounds that had taken his life). He stood in the shower and felt the skin where the scar should be, puckered and tight. Instead, it was smooth and fair, only the memory remained.

All the crew had been told was that they were on a mission to apprehend a criminal; a mass murderer and terrorist by the name of John Harrison. He'd been told to expect casualties, but that the hope was that none would eventuate. Get in, extract the prisoner and get out. John had heard these words before.

During the trip, John spent his off hours in his quarters, replaying over and over again the brighter, happier years of his life. A life filled with cases, adrenaline filled chases and a tall, brilliant, curly haired detective....and wished he were here.


	14. Watson your face, John?

**_Harrison_ **

Like those around him lately, Kirk was nothing more than a tool for Harrison. Those were the cold, hard facts; if Kirk had been useless, he would have destroyed him. After a short battle on Qo’nos, Harrison surrendered. He’d been threatened by Starfleet; they had 72 torpedoes they were planning on using against him. He knew full well what they were; his crew.

Now, Kirk, who had defied orders to kill Harrison, was his way back to his family. After a brief discussion to ascertain his crew were aboard, Harrison surrendered. He found it almost comical that Starfleet were more or less delivering his family to him and, as such, surrendered immediately.

Harrison was led away in cuffs towards the Enterprise, and towards his crew.

Showered and changed, he was held in the Brig, his glass prison. The next part of his plan was coming together, almost too easily.

**_Watson_ **

John stared at the monitor. It was impossible, over 300 years had passed yet there he was on the screen. There was a hardness in the expression that John had never seen before but nevertheless John would know him anywhere….The man in the brig was Sherlock.

John reached for the counter-top but it wasn’t enough to stop him falling to the floor, his knees giving out and his vision funneling as shock set in. Gentle hands lifted him and guided him to a chair. He felt water being pressed into his hand as he leaned forward to gasp a much-needed lungful of air.

Clenching his hand into a fist, he slowly turned back to the screen to look again. There he was, pacing angrily back and forth in the confined space. Like a predatory cat, there was a contained, feline grace to his movements that was both achingly familiar and yet subtly different to the way his friend had walked the streets of London by his side.

Like a moth to the flame, John edged closer to the small screen, reaching out to touch the flat panel, his fingers brushing the tiny figure moving within the image.

It couldn’t be Sherlock, it wasn’t possible.

 “Who is he?” John whispered.

An ensign at his shoulder, assuming John had asked a question intending an answer clarified, “That’s the prisoner, Doctor Watson. That’s John Harrison.”

John’s brow furrowed; the prisoner?  The man who’d been responsible for the bomb at Section 31, for the attack at Starfleet headquarters? John stepped back. Not Sherlock. Of course it isn’t Sherlock. It can’t be. It must be some sort of aberrant memory from the cloning process. Some mental glitch that crossed his treasured memories with the briefing about the man they’d been sent to capture. That was it, it must be; the alternative was unthinkable.

And yet, whispered a tiny voice in his head. Those eyes…. That arrogant bearing. He tried for over an hour to focus on his work before excusing himself and heading for the brig. He needed to know.

The man was facing away from him as John entered the room, separated from him by an invisible wall, but as the door closed he turned and John watched as the carefully controlled expression fell away and was replaced with something altogether more familiar.

They stared at each other for over a minute, neither able to believe what was in front of them, until the tall dark haired man spoke first, his eyes filling with tears.

“John?”

John approached the barrier, trying to reconcile the reports with what he knew of his friend. Could this man, who had killed hundreds, possibly thousands, be the man he’d lost? And if he was, could John accept that?

“Sh…..Sherlock?” he knew his voice sounded odd. He needed this so much, but if Sherlock had done what people had said, then the man he knew had changed, possibly beyond recovery.

Sherlock looked into his eyes, seeing John’s doubt, and then away. The familiar expression fell away and was again replaced by the impassive, hard expression John had watched on the monitor. When he spoke again, the voice was expressionless, “I am not Sherlock.”

“No. Stop it, Sherlock.” The lightning fast deduction sealed the matter in John’s mind. Somehow, the WAS Sherlock. Perhaps not HIS Sherlock anymore, but he was in there, waiting for John to lead him home.

“I said I’m not Sherlock! I don’t even know you.” The voice was hard, uncompromising, and dismissive and as John stared in despair, the man turned away, ending the conversation.

John stood for a moment before turning, with military precision, and walking from the room, his hands clenched at his side to stop the bitter tears at how much the rejection hurt.

What he didn’t see was the tears flowing heedlessly down Harrison’s face as the haunted, distraught eyes of Sherlock Holmes watched him leave.

 

 


	15. Resolutions

Sleep evaded Watson that night; he wrestled with what he had seen and what he knew to be true. While he knew the face and body were hardened from that which he remembered, he knew those eyes anywhere; it had to be Sherlock Holmes.

Silently, he crept out of his chamber and went in search of his friend again, corridors and walkways lit by the faint glow of lights in a ship mostly asleep.

John stopped outside the closed door of the brig, pausing to take a deep steadying breath. If the prisoner...Sherlock, rejected him again he swore he'd walk away. He would walk away and not look back. Perhaps whatever had happened in the intervening years had indeed changed the man he knew beyond recovery. If that were so, John would let him go, he'd grieve all over again and he'd get back to this new life of Starships and Starfleet.

He laughed bitterly, who was he kidding? On a deep, spiritual level he knew he couldn't face it again, the loss. In all likelihood he'd end up taking on ever increasingly dangerous missions until fate took the pain away. He reached out and pushed the door switch and they opened with a muted slide.

John Watson clearly wasn't the only one robbed of sleep. The prisoner restlessly paced his cell, but his head twitched up as Watson entered the room. Watson was again struck by unmistakable tells in Harrison's posture and gait. If he'd had reservations, there were none now, this was Sherlock.

"You finished lying to me now?" Watson began.

The lip curled up, a mixture of humour and regret, "Sometimes, lies are all we have."

"What does that mean? Yes? No? Sorry John, didn't mean to surprise you by turning up in the fucking twenty-fourth century?"

The familiar eyes softened and the man took a step toward the barrier, "What would you have me say John, that you're not welcome here?"

Watson's heart leapt at the use of his name, rolling so comfortably off Sherlock's lips, he was determined to use that name. But the hope was immediately dashed by the second rejection.

"Well, at least that's a start, you admit you know me."

"Oh yes," Sherlock pressed close to the invisible wall separating them, the glint of tears in his eyes, "I remember you John Watson. I remember you dying in my arms."

John stepped forward, leaving nothing but a few inches and an impenetrable force-field between them. He knew how he'd died, he'd read the file when he'd been woken as a clone. He and Sherlock had always discussed the possibility of a violet death for one, or both of them and it seemed John had won that unwanted prise, "I don't feel dead," he said softly.

The tears welled in Sherlock's eyes, "I lost you...." Sherlock whispered, "You died. And then....I went wrong."

John reached up and placed an open palm on the barrier, "What happened Sherlock? What happened to you?"

Sherlock's larger palm mirrored the motion on the other side, pressing to John's as if trying to make a physical as well as emotional connection.

Over the course of several hours, Sherlock related the story of his intervening years; his unshakable thirst for revenge and how the government had used it to their own ends. The gaps in his timeline; suspended by a society that couldn't deal with the monster they'd created. John winced at Sherlock's description of himself as a creature, but sat silently, Indian-style nodding occasionally and encouraged his friend to continue. Eventually, Sherlock explained how he had engineered his own capture to bring him a step closer to retrieving his crew. The crew Marcus had stolen from him as he was betrayed yet again.

John was torn. While the things Sherlock had done were reprehensible, they were not without reason. John knew the good that Starfleet could do, but equally clear was that there was rot within the system; injustice that needed to be addressed. The conclusion was simple, even if John was the only one willing to help, he'd side with Sherlock. Just the two of them against the rest of the galaxy.

Strategies were discussed and agreed, plans were made and a little before dawn, implemented. Getting Sherlock out of the cell was simple. As a ship's doctor, he had an override code to every lock. Moving together, they made their way to the storage bay and John watched as Sherlock moved between the torpedoes, checking the status of each container and the welfare for each crew member. Finally, he found his own empty tube and motioned John over.

"It's time, John."

"I hate leaving you to do this alone, Sherlock."

"I know, but I can't concentrate without knowing I have you safe. Will you do this for me John? Will you go to sleep, just for a while?"

John nodded silently, heartened by the more familiar humanity in Sherlock's words. Climbing in, he settled back. Sherlock reached out and for a minute they clutched shaking hands together, the simple contact reinforcing that there would be time for more later. Sherlock then moved to punch codes into the panel and the lid slid closed.

"We will meet again, be safe,”

 


	16. My crew, my family

Harrison watched, ensuring the process complete before slipping back to the brig with Watson’s ID card his key to every room on the ship. Conversations replayed over in his head constantly and now, more than ever, he was sure of his way forward. His crew was ready, safe in the cargo hold, including his old friend. Being on night shift, Watson would shortly be due to report at the end of his shift.

When Watson didn’t appear, he knew Kirk would come looking, using the ID card as the only clues to his whereabouts. Right on schedule Kirk appeared, the door to the brig sliding open with the now familiar hiss. Kirk stepped into the room, followed closely by Bones; a quick inspection of the room and Harrison answered them without question.

“He is safe,”

“What have you done with him?” Bones interjected.

“I said, he is safe, and will continue to remain so should you desire to listen to me,” Harrison’s movements were slow and calculated as he stood and walked around the brig.

“What could you possibly have to -,” Bones started, but a hand held out in front of him by Kirk put a stop to his continued tirade.

"Go ahead, you have your chance, make it count." Kirk stated warily.

“I am the remnant of a time long passed…” Harrison spoke slowly, deliberately, each word resounding in the brig, “John Harrison was a fiction created the moment I was awoken by your Admiral Marcus to help him advance his cause; a smoke screen to conceal my true identity. My name is....was..... Sherlock Holmes. I was the world’s only consulting detective and, along with Dr. John Watson, solved crimes local law enforcement were incapable of piecing together. Dr. Watson was taken from me, and Sherlock Holmes succumb to drug addiction not long after this.”

Bones and Kirk shared a look, before Kirk urged him to continue.

“I was kept alive solely through a Section 31 trial of the Augment Virus. Once it had taken hold Marcus used me to design weapons to help him realise his vision of a militarised Starfleet. He has sent you to use those weapons; to fire my torpedoes on an unsuspecting planet, and then purposely crippled your ship in enemy space, leading to one inevitable outcome: the Klingons would come searching for whomever was responsible, and you would have no chance of escape. Marcus would finally have the war he talked about, the war he always wanted,”

Kirk recoiled in horror, "You are suggesting the Admiral violated every regulation he vowed to uphold, he exploited your intellect to cause a war?"

"He wanted to exploit my savagery! The savagery and the rage that I endured after the passing of Doctor Watson, revenge the only thing providing relief from the constant hounding. Go and inspect those torpedoes; they are my people, Kirk. The closest thing I have to family” Khan was pacing back and forth across the room, his body stiff but with a feline grace as he explained his situation calmly to the captain that stood before him, “And so I did the only thing I could. I used my knowledge to hide my crew and smuggle them out, but we were discovered, and Marcus is now using those torpedoes to threaten me, and start a war.”

“And what about Watson, how has he arrived in this situation?” Kirk questioned, still not sold on Harrison’s story.

“Watson was cloned, his body left to science when he passed. I was trained to forget. He, however, did not, his genetic makeup too strong to forget, memories three hundred years old as fresh as if the events happened yesterday,” Harrison offered, “It’s all there in files if you choose to read them.”

Harrison waited for a response, watching as the captains eyes flitted around the brig and beyond, watching his staff sitting at their control panels. His last desperate attempt to secure his crew, and John Watson, he appealed to Kirk’s sense of family.

“My crew... is my family, Kirk. Is there anything you would not do... for your family?"

Harrison watched through wet eyes, as Kirk turned slowly to face him, watching a single tear making a track down his pale cheek. Kirk and Bones left the brig without another word, trying to apply every reason possible why they shouldn’t listen to Harrison.

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	17. Want To See Some More?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does borrow heavily from the STID script.

Harrison knew he was near an escape when Kirk returned shortly later, his brow furrowed in thought. The invisible barrier marking the wall of the brig flashed and disappeared; Kirk stepped in silently and gestured for Harrison to follow him.

“If what you tell me is true,” Kirk’s eyes fixed on the ground in front as they walked through the hallways and gantries, “Section 31's agenda has been to bring Starfleet down, all this time. That’s what you’re telling me isn’t it?”

“Correct,” Harrison knew he’d won, and continued, “I was created, my intellect exploited to design better, newer, faster weapons. Once I’d created them, my own usefulness expired, I was sent back to an icy tomb, to be awoken at a time when I would once again be useful. Marcus decided that time was now.”

Another door slid open, Kirk gesturing Harrison inside to take a seat in his quarters. Harrison watched as Kirk pulled up details on screen, his heart pounding as one of the first images presented was that of him as Sherlock Holmes, John Watson standing to his side.

“This is you and Doctor Watson, am I correct?”

“Yes, in a time long passed,” Harrison continued, “I was a consulting detective, the only one in the world; the best in the world. Doctor Watson was my blogger, my companion, my best friend,” Harrison swallowed hard, “I want...no, I need him back.”

“You realise if we let you go you will still be a wanted man, even more so?”

“Give me the Vengeance. Put me on there with my crew; I designed that ship, I can command it and be gone,” Harrison knew that he was capable of taking the crew and the ship and disappearing into space.

“And what about Marcus? What about him?” Kirk questioned, “From what you say, this makes him a terrorist,”

“He is a terrorist, Captain. Plain and simple. Give me my ship,” Harrison implored, aware his desperation was now showing.

Kirk sat quietly, pensively, mulling over the evidence before him. He was in no position to make a decision like this without the authority of Starfleet, but the threat to his ship from Marcus was immediate. A decision needed to be made, so Kirk made it.

“I can assure you Captain, I have no interest in your crew or your ship. I simply want my crew, my family, and John Watson, returned to me. I want to take them to safety, secure in the knowledge that they will no longer be in danger from Starfleet.”

“Starfleet are not the enemy… yet.” Kirk mused, “But if we do this, they may be. The best I can offer is that I will take no action against you leaving.”

Arrangements were made and agreements struck before Harrison returned to the brig, satisfied with the outcome. His orders were simple; a complete takeover of the ship, with as few causalities as possible. Once the ship was in Harrison’s control his crew, still inside the torpedoes, would be transported to the Vengeance.

The threat from Marcus looming, Harrison soon found himself escorted through the ship. As agreed, Kirk would accompany him as he boarded the ship. Shields down, Harrison waited to be beamed across with Kirk in tow. He looked around the room, surveyed his surroundings and left quickly, leaving Kirk struggling to keep up. Expertly, he ran through corridors, laying waste to all those who approached or questioned him.

A struggle on the bridge, Harrison momentarily knocked to the floor, before he was up and fighting again; Marcus sitting back and watching his crew do the fighting for him. Harrison’s moves were swift and deliberate; Kirk had said no killing, but the rage had taken over. Three hundred years of being exploited, used, and then tossed away like the proverbial garbage saw the rage bubble to the surface. Harrison’s hands around Marcus’ head, he squeezed tighter, nothing stopping him as he drew on his rage against his onetime superior. A scream, gurgle, and pop and Marcus’s skull was crushed; Harrison finally feeling the sweet relief of revenge he had sought for so long. Horrified, Kirk watched on, before beaming directions back to Spock, still aboard the Enterprise. In an instant Kirk, and the body of Marcus, had vanished; beamed aboard the Enterprise. Now all Harrison could do was wait and hope Kirk came good with his word as he made his way to the cargo bay.

Harrison watched as the torpedoes appeared before him. A quick count and a glance through the windows affirmed that each and every one of his crew had been sent, as per the agreement with Kirk. There was one he needed to reanimate first, one he needed standing next to him as he started his next chapter; John Watson had be woken. Fingers danced across the control panel starting the process, before Harrison returned momentarily to the bridge, to the captain’s chair, thanking Kirk for his honesty and doing what was right.

Able to be operated by one crew member in times of trouble, Harrison set the ships’ coordinates to the next quadrant before returning to the cargo bay to greet his waking friend. The reanimation process quicker this time, he returned to find John Watson standing in the centre of the room, clothes and hair damp.

“It’s a touch cold in here, Sherlock,” Watson joked.

“So the both of us, we’ve seen a bit of trouble lately.”

“Of course, yes. Enough for several lifetimes... far too much.” Watson nodded.

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for playing along with us! We've had a great time writing this and, as you can see, we've left the ending open for more. 
> 
> At this stage, though, it will depend on if YOU want to read more, so let us know in the comments.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, I'm thrilled to announce that one of my other fics, 'The Greatest Secret' is going mainstream! I just launched my new novel project called 'Fallen for you' on Inkshares! Any help spreading the word would be AWESOME.
> 
> The John and Sherlock have been rewritten as original characters, the entire plot is being tightened up, and your support to enable me to reach my target and get this published would make me very, very happy.
> 
> We created a special page to make it easy:
> 
> https://www.inkshares.com/projects/fallen-for-you
> 
> Hugs and love
> 
>  
> 
> PS...It’d mean the world to me if after you clicked the link above, you  
> forwarded this email to a handful of friends, family, and co-workers.  
> https://www.inkshares.com/projects/fallen-for-you


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